I have always wanted to be a film director but recently I came up with the perfect film. This film can fit into almost any genre: action, comedy, drama, or rom com. The film can be made using any budget, blockbuster or art-house. The film can be released as a Christmas movie or a summer flick. The film can open at Cannes or Sundance or even Tribeca. The film is a producer’s long lost brother and an editor’s best friend; that is to say it is both easy to edit yet filled with effects. It examines some heavy themes but in a lighthearted way. It deals with prevalent issues head on but utilizes a great deal of tact and savvy. It is self-aware without being condescending. It can be said to occupy the very essence and soul of minimalistic cinema.

It was a soft summer afternoon, the one where the wind feels like a familiar kiss as you do the dishes after a big family feast held outside in the garden. That is to say, in a very long winded way, it was an hour to sunset and the temperature was 19 (Celsius of course because I am not a neanderthal) and there was a light breeze. It was the kind of afternoon that I imagine the corrupted youth of Athens longed for. The kind where they lounged around and spoke of all the things they saw and never understood. And the only person that told them the truth was Socrates.

The water was black and smashing against the rocks with ancient anger. The stars had no reflection on the surface of this titanic ocean. The sea was like an abyss. An abyss where you stand still and are enveloped by the darkness, but you are at home in the darkness. This muted silence caresses your tormented soul. It is a respite from the troubles of your world. The same troubles that now will come for you at the speed of light. ​

We drove home in absolute silence, which was still better than abject silence. We had given into the darkness but for different reasons. I gave in because I was scared of happiness. I was terrified that I didn’t deserve it, not one inch of it. She gave into the darkness because of me. She thought she was the reason for my unhappiness.

Life was a set of black and white photographs. We walked side by side. My leather shoes were too loud. They were probably fake leather, I never cared enough to know. I hated clichés yet if she was to say something in a French accent I would have died.

​This is a children’s story. It contains mature subject matter. Reader discretion is advised. So what kind of children is the real question? ***Steven was a quiet alligator who lived an ordinary alligator life. Steven ate his usual alligator breakfast, an apple, with his girlfriend Annie.

He owned a tattoo parlour and she ran a flower shop. They were both poor and pained. He loved the past that tormented him. She adored the roses that pricked her. They both believed that beauty is pain and that pain walks beside us everywhere we go. He kept his memories close so he wouldn't be forgotten. She held her fears close so she wouldn’t be alone. He was surrounded by ghosts and she was surrounded by roses.

To be profoundly broken is to be connected innately to the nerve center of life. It is to fly against the backdrop of a piercingly blue sky and come crashing down as naturally as the rain. The challenge before living creatures, from the dainty forest shrew to the much more complex and more emotionally brittle human, is accept this. Yet to truly emerge from our shell, to interact and see this world for all that it is, we need to do more. We need to love all the little broken daring pieces as much as we love the totality of the world.

Inevitably my thoughts return to that unspoken colossus we constructed so long ago. How dare I remember? ​Before a tempest hits the shore with all its means of destruction, a serene calm presides over the sky and permeates through the air. The storm is meditating on our destruction. Our tempest arrives not with cannons and explosions but with a ring of the doorbell. It arrives every day and it doesn’t destroy us. It only prolongs our anxiety. It toys with us maliciously.

They say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Good thing for me I have never had any of those. I do, believe it or not, greatly doubt those who are authentic, altruistic, and good intentioned. They don’t make sense to me, so naturally I find them dangerous.

In truth I do not claim this story, nor do I claim the life of which it speaks. I claim nothing not even my name, I have left that for the trees and the wind to forget. This story that I do not own, I tell because of the haunting austerity of its truth and the dust it collects, placed on a shelf by life.

“Good Afternoon, good to see you both again. Why don’t we start this time with you Michaela? What are you thinking this week?”“Thank you Dr. Hensbridge, I am feeling suffocated lately, I feel like he is being too sensitive about every little thing, just to get back at me. It’s very passive-aggressive. I think he is being like this because he is as confused as a blueberry in an apple pie. Don’t roll your eyes at me!” “Oh come on Dr. Hensbridge, how can I not roll my eyes, that was so colonial.”

All cinephiles and avid moviegoers are familiar with the laws of film. These laws, seemingly antediluvian, are an attempt to protect the audience, regardless of size, and maximize the enjoyment derived from viewing the film. For example, pointing out the state of suspended disbelief with a comment such as ‘don’t overreact, you know this is a movie right?’ is absolutely forbidden. Another sample law of the cinema is to never stop the movie at the credits or leave the theatre at the beginning of said credits. The credits are an ode to those whose tireless efforts, getting lattes and jumping from windows, made this movie experience even possible. However, most people are not as familiar with a little known law of film known as the Brikerian Rule.